


Hero's Call: If it's not social, leave a message.

by Demidea



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Fluff, Lothar's secret vacation spot, M/M, alternative titles included: The Drunk Adventures of Anduin Lothar as told by Khadgar, plus khadgar after some scheming by smarter parties, plus wild gryphons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demidea/pseuds/Demidea
Summary: If Khadgar had a moment to spare for such things, he might have wondered where Anduin Lothar went when he vacationed. As it is, he doesn't have a moment to spare. Not until he finds himself joining Lothar for one unexpectedly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. WoW is a thing that is eating my life. That being said, this is ultimately just a fic containing my love for The Hinterlands. I don't know why I love that zone so much, it's nothing extraordinary for Alliance players. But there's a sense of peace to it I don't get from other zones.

If Khadgar was honest with himself, he should have started with Queen Taria to begin with. He was in possession of a rational mind, he should have foreseen the consequences of a morning asking every soul that may have the slightest inkling about the location of Stormwind’s Lord Commander. As it was, he didn’t. Not until the Queen sought  _ him _ out.

“Good afternoon, Archmage.” Taria says as she joins him on the terrace overlooking the training yards. Her greeting woke him from his reverie.

“Is it after noon?” He asks before he can get ahold of himself, glancing skyward. The sun backs her claim. “Ah. I suppose it is.” He catches her eye again, or, more importantly her raised eyebrow, and quickly looks away, tacking on a hasty, “My lady.”

“Are you looking for someone?” Taria asks. Khadgar sneaks another glance sideways. She knows. Of course she knew. He’s only interrogated half the guards.

“Yes, actually,” he colors, suddenly very warm, “I can’t find Commander Lothar, and everyone I’ve asked is determinedly ignorant of his location as well.”

She’s silent just long enough that he knows it’s on purpose, and returns his gaze to hers. She’s scrutinizing him, incredulously, as if she’s surprised he’s asking at all.

“I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

“Aside from my brother?” Taria says lightly. “I’m afraid I can’t say. I haven’t seen him since the other day. Have you checked his gryphon?”

“No.” Though that was a good idea. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “I’ll do that. Thank you, my lady.”

“You’re welcome, Khadgar. You may ask for me anytime.”

He flashes her a grateful smile. The rest of the subtle implications Taria hinted at may fly over his head, but this one does not. The young ex-Novitiate who broke into the Royal Barracks had no fear to contact the Queen or Council for matters of importance. It was the more…  _ sociable _ matters he had trouble justifying. “Yes, your majesty. Thank you.”

Taria takes her leave, allowing Khadgar to turn heel and head to the royal stables. It seems obvious, now that he think of it: if Lothar were avoiding the diplomat’s table, or the war room, the stables would provide a semi-productive alternative with little human interaction. And given Lothar’s recent stormy disposition, he was overdue for a break from human interaction. Perfect, really. He’s so convinced this must be where the elusive Commander was located, his heart falls when Lothar’s golden is still nested in her box, completely unattended.

He plops down next to her, dejected. The golden, Padswift, if Khadgar remembered right, clicks her beak at him, shifting in her nest until a large feathered head rests on his shoulder. This used to disturb Khadgar, who could never quite forget about the creature’s legendary beak and talons, but in the months since he met Lothar he’s come to tolerate the bird’s affections. He’s been present for her grooming often enough, the “fee” Lothar extracted of him for using the Royal animals.

Khadgar frees his arm so he can turn his palm and stroke her beak. She chirps once, pleased, the smooth, fine feathers warm and heavy on Khadgar’s neck where she briefly cuddles up to him, allowing him to stroke her neck. “I don’t supposed you know where Lothar is, do you?”

To his surprise, she warbles back a response. Behind him, the crunch of hay alerts him that she’s going to stand, but doesn’t prepare him for the unfurling of powerful wings, or the gust from the first leaping beat. She hovers in the air, her mounting side exposed to him.

“You want me to get on?”

Gryphons are not known for their patience, a fact Khadgar is very much aware of. Lothar’s gryphon, especially. From the moment she chose to allow him on her back, he feels the clock tick away, and in the pit of his gut

He’s flown to Karazhan, the occasional trip to Goldshire, or Ironforge, but never much farther. He loses feeling in his legs as they pass over the mountains and  into Dun Morogh, heading for Kharanos, and for a moment he thinks their destination is Ironforge, until Padswift takes a hard right, soaring through a pass and out. Thandol Span, over a wall where the smell of stagnant water and green waft up. It’s warmer in the Wetlands, but the humidity mixed with wind chill. The Arathi Highlands. It’s deep into the day by the time the mountain raise again, and they break into the border of The Hinterlands. Up ahead, a large stone bird the size of a mountain stands, with bright gold dots and flashing white heads lift from and circle. They don’t head there, taking a right over the untamed forests, where Khadar can see the silver fur of large wolves, and the occasional deer.

He sees Troll architecture on both sides, a waterfall to his left, followed by a Wildhammer outpost. They keep going, and going, until the land drops to the ocean, and then with a lurch, Padswift starts a sudden descent into what had appeared to be an inconspicuous thicket. As they approached, a thin trail of faint smoke rose between the layers of trees, and a clearing opens unexpectedly.

Padswift lands with a thump, the stop of forward motion after so many hours perhaps hits him harder than the actual landing. He’s gotten so used to it that when he dismounts he experiences a moment of panic where it feels as if the ground pitches backward under his feet. The initial panic passes, and he’s able to convince himself he’s in no danger of falling if as long as he doesn’t give in to the urge to pitch forward to correct his balance. He’s so preoccupied by this thought, he fails to notice the heavy footsteps approaching from the path through the trees, or the low whistling that cut off when the whistler rounds the last obstacle.

“Well. Aren’t you curious.”

Khadgar spins around to find Lothar, dressed in leathers meant to turn a wolf’s paw rather than a sword, holding a ridiculously sized battle hammer, looking, well,  _ drunk _ , but also mildly amused.

“Uh.” Khadgar doesn’t actually manage to say words, he’s still trying to figure out if stretching his spine is more pain or pleasure after such a long ride. He does look pointedly at the hammer, then back at Lothar, eyebrows raised.

“What, this?” He tosses the hammer, spinning it around as it flies. When he catches it, he lets the head arch around in a full loop, letting it sing through the air. “The cabin’s roof needs patching, so I stopped by Stormfeather. I kind of got into an argument with Thunderfist about hammer size.”

Finished with stretching, for now, Khadgar finds himself studying the cabin. The build is rough, with loose-grained plank boards that are clearly lovingly tended (if not pummeled in certain areas). There didn’t appear to be a door, or glass in the windows. Neatly stacked split firewood, only partially used peeked out from under a tarp cover. That was all that was neat right now, it looked like a small party stampeded through cleared flat land around the front end of the house was littered with empty bottles, an open crate lay propped in the shade of the house, the hay stuffing the empty space lay scattered over the top as well as trampled on the immediate surroundings.

“Are these recent?” He asks, incredulous, referring to the empty bottles neatly lined up on a few empty barrels in what looks suspiciously like a makeshift target range.

“Of course.”

“But you only disappeared a day and a half ago!”

Lothar had taken the opportunity to approach Padswift, hammer dropped to his hip and free hand outstretched. “You big tattletale.” He stroked her beak, then reaches under her chin for a good scratch. “I can’t believe you’d go behind my back.” She warbles, pleased with herself. “Betrayed by the one I’d least expected.” His scratches must be erratic because she clucks in disapproval. “Stabbed in the back by the very talons I diligently tended to.”

He’s very clearly ruffling her feathers now, and Padswift squawks, rearing up and stamping her paws at the offender. Lothar, for his part, didn’t even flinch, laughing all the while. “Oh stop. It’s your own fault.”

Padswift snapped her beak, so close Khadgar was sure she’d sliced Lothar’s leather jerkin, and leaped back, her wings catching the wind. Lothar watched after her, a goofy smile on his face, like the world couldn’t bother him. He turned that smile on Khadgar, and to Khadgar’s horror, it widened when he caught him staring. “And you, boy. What are you doing all the way out here to begin with?”

“What am I-?” Shouldn’t Khadgar be the one asking that of Lothar? But no, if this was one of Lothar’s homes, he was very clearly intruding. “I was looking for you?”

“And, despite well-established, commonly known orders and the respect of the Keep, you found me.” Lothar’s not looking at him right, he’s meandering off, swinging the hammer with lazy ease that was just shy of reckless. Too late, Khadgar realized he meant for him to follow, and has to sprint the first few yards to keep up. “So, what is it?”

They round the corner, revealing the side of the house, where a pile of shingles lie under the center of the eave of the roof. It’s evident at one point Lothar had started sorting them into piles: a gradient of  _ half-rotted _ and  _ maybe-usable _ . They turn another corner to the back of the place (or the front? It had a door and everything). Propped in the dirt against one wall was a ladder. “What is what?”

“Hold the ladder.” Lothar orders, sounding much more sober than he had any right to. Of course, by the time he’s said it, he’s already two rungs up, climbing with some difficulty since the hammer leaves only one free hand. His voice strains when he talks. “What is it that prompted you to come find me?”

Khadgar grasps for the ladder, not sure what exactly he’s meant to do aside from apply pressure. “Huh? Oh.” That does take a minute to process. After the third inquiry, finding Lothar had become a puzzle of sorts, the desire to solve propelling him forward without need for motive. Between that and the distraction that is Lothar shuffling up a ladder inches away with a low threshold for coordination, it takes Khadgar a moment to recall. “You invited me to lunch, and I had forgotten the date.”

“You flew all the way out here for lunch?” With a hard shove and a grunt of effort, Lothar heaves himself up and disappears over the edge of the roof.

“It’s not like I knew I’d be flying for the better part of the day when I mounted Padswift.”

“Toss one of those shingles up here. You were able to get her to fly without a location?”

Surprise is clear in his tone, and as Khadgar scrambles around the side of the building back to where the singles were piled, he realizes why Lothar would find the idea unusual. Trained flight mounts required clear orders to avoid navigational errors made by unskilled riders. “I asked her where you were. Apparently you’re a location.” He picks up the nearest, grimaces at the slimy feeling of damp moss along the underside. He wonders if there’s something he should do, clean it or dry it, before determining it as fit for reuse, but what would he know? “Does it matter what pile?”

“Any shingle works, just be sure to throw them high.”

Khadgar’s fielded some interesting requests in his lifetime, many from the man on the roof, so this one doesn't register as particularly odd. He does as he’s told, and tosses the shingle up, only to hear it hit the roof and clatter back down, landing at his feet.

“Throw just a bit higher.” Lothar says. “So I'm your destination. Funny.”

Khadgar watches down and picks up another shingle, this time aim for more of an arc, and lets it fly. The crack of hardened wood on metal shatters the silence, caused by several nearby animals to bolt, Khadgar nearly among them. Wood fragments, green with moss, rain from above. Khadgar hears movement, and the scrape of a body sliding down, followed by the reappearance of Lothar, who lands a little too hard and jogs a few steps to control the momentum.

“Old Hammerfist was right, the impact on this one’s too much.” He says, swinging the hammer around in another test arc. He turns to catch Khadgar’s eye, measuring his reaction. “Well then. We better get back to Stormfeather. This hammer just won't do.”

“Actually, I should get back to Stormwind.”

Lothar raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on walking?” For the first time, Khadgar looks for Padswift. Lothar turns and points to a solitary speck over the tree line. Sure enough, Khadgar can just make out the Stormwind blue on the gold fur. “She's gone home. Won't be back until my week is up.” Khadgar has a sinking feeling, and Lothar’s goofy smile isn't helping. “Looks like you're stuck being my errand boy until then.”

**Author's Note:**

> The mobile doc for this fic kept shortening the title to "Hero's... mess," so, of course, Lothar's cabin is now dubbed Hero's Mess.
> 
> There's a spot in The Hinterlands nestled up against The Overlook Cliffs, a short walk north of the path to the shore and the Revantusk Village, but south of Shaol'watha. Currently it's empty, and infested with wolves, but it is where I picture Hero's Mess to be located.


End file.
